The Way Madness Lies
by brandy snaps
Summary: An abandoned mansion, a growing suspect list, a copy-cat killer who kills as if he is in a Shakespeare novel, two nagging nieces and a missing will. This may be Sherlock's toughest case yet. Because the victim. Is his father.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: _The Garish Sun. _**

'What… is it'?

John felt a smug smile creep onto his face.

He had surprised Sherlock Holmes.

'It', he began, slowly and deliberately, 'is a t-shirt'. Sherlock held the thing in front and away from him, as if it were some kind of new, alien creature.

'A… _t-shirt_', he repeated, very, very confusedly.

John didn't quite understand what was wrong with it. It was a medium, navy, v-neck shirt with metallic silver stitches. It was _just _a shirt. Why was that so surprising?

Sherlock seemed to snap himself out of it and slowly and meticulously folded the thing on the table, refusing to meet John's eyes.

'What'? John demanded, his brows knitting together. The curly haired brunette looked up and smiled erroneously.

'Nothing. It's lovely, thankyou'.

'What's wrong with it'?

'Nothing… it is…'

'What? What is it Sherlock'?

'Well… it's a t-shirt'!

'Yes'.

Sherlock ran a hair through his hair and looked at the shirt as if it were some kind of bomb, he chewed his lip. 'It's a _t-shirt _John! Do you ever see me wear a _t-shirt_'? He suddenly snapped, 'do _you _ever wear t-shirts'?

John frowned and looked down at his sweater. 'I guess I must sometimes… but why is that a bad thing'?

Sherlock resigned, smiling and wrapping the shirt back up and placing it next to the scull on the mantle.

'You know what'? He quipped, smiling a tight lipped smile, 'it doesn't matter. I didn't get you what you wanted either, I suppose it's fair'.

John felt slightly hurt by the comment but still agreed, looking hesitantly at the large Peruvian hunting knife on the table.

'Yeah…' he grumbled, returning to his laptop.

A few hours later Sherlock's ancient landline rang, the sound echoing dissonantly through the dark apartment.

John had retired to the upstairs room but Sherlock – being Sherlock – was still lying on the couch, wide awake in the darkness.

'Landline…' he murmured solicitously, 'landline…'?

He lay there for a few moments more and the line went dead as the caller hung up, then started up a brief few seconds later.

_Ring…ring…ring…ring…**hang-up**…ring…ring…ring…ring…**hang-up**…_

He thought for a moment about who might ring the landline.

Only three people knew of the fabled landline of 221B. John Watson, Mycroft Holmes and… the third.

Sherlock though for a moment. Naturally it couldn't be John, a. he was asleep and b. Watson wasn't so inconsiderate to ring while Sherlock was… catatonic.

It couldn't be Mycroft as he had another route-canal, he'd never call.

So it had to be…

Sherlock swallowed the strange lump in his throat and picked up the phone shakily, pressing his ear to the receiver.

'Hello'? He croaked, his voice breaking.

'Sherlock Holmes', the man on the other end of the line laughed, 'how _have _you been'?

'Fine. How did you get this number'?

'Oh, such enmity Sherlock. I'm hurt'.

There was a groan somewhere in the apartment and then the sound of heavy footsteps. John was awake.

'What do you want'? Sherlock hissed hurriedly.

The cold laugh at the end of the line was malevolent enough to – in a very uncommon occasion – send a chill up Sherlock's spine.

The man breathed into the receiver for a few moments before beginning again hoarsely and vindictively.

'Take him and cut him out in little stars…'

Sherlock felt the hand he held his phone in go numb, along with the rest of his body from head to toe.

John rushed into the room, not entirely aware of Sherlock's nocturnal activities but fairly sure they didn't involve mysterious late night phone calls.

'And he will make the face of heaven so fine…'

Sherlock looked to John pleadingly and it made the good doctor's stomach drop. Who was speaking to him?

'Is it him'? John demanded, 'Sherlock? Is it him'?

Sherlock ran a hand through his head and nodded slowly, gesturing to his mobile. John quickly dashed to it and started dialing.

'That all the world will be in love with the night…'

Sherlock could hear John speaking hurriedly to Lastrade, muttering half finished sentences about the landline and Sherlock and the need to trace the call.

Sherlock listened intently as the caller laughed the last line of the poem.

He hung up and then – to John's surprise – threw the phone at the wall.

It lay broken on the floor and sparked, then died.

'Never mind', John muttered, hanging up and placing the mobile in his pyjama pocket.

Sherlock paced up and down the room, his dressing gown hanging off one shoulder and his usually pale eyes burning darkly like twin blue coals in his head.

'Sherlock', John snapped, bringing the edgy man back to reality.

'What did he say'?

Sherlock muttered something under his breath. 'Pay no heed to the garish… sun…_sun_'.

Sherlock paced the room, pulling discarded bits of clothing and toiletries in to travel bag that seemed to have materialised from no where. He even pulled the blue Christmas shirt into a bag along with a pair of ownerless jeans, John's sneakers and a Moroccan fez.

He looked like he was running away.

Or running to something…

Watson looked at his friend apprehensively, realising now that he was scared. Sherlock Holmes was scared. Oh hell…

'Sherlock? Sherlock what did he say'?

'Son'.

'Sorry? What'?

Sherlock turned to John, a look of earnestness on his face.

'John', he croaked, his voice breaking.

John suddenly felt very, very fearful as he realised there were tears pricking behind Sherlock's eyes.

'I think…' he breathed, his voice rattling as an angry sob tried to escape, 'I think James Moriarty just…'

John winced at the name.

'What do you think – know – he did? What's wrong Sherlock'?

'I thing he just… I think Moriarty just…' he took a deep breath

'I think he just killed my father'.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: A sea of troubles. **

'Mrs. Hudson'! Sherlock bellowed, stamping his foot on the floor like an angry toddler, 'ready your car'!

John stood dumbstruck for a moment, stunned by how fast Sherlock had altered his mood.

He'd gone from distressed to… freaking insane.

'Sherlock…' murmured John, to tired and frightened to snap, 'Sherlock stop it'.

Sherlock continued pulling things into the overnight bag, his face pale and his hands continuing to shake.

'Sherlock. Stop. It'.

'Shakespeare, he always read me Shakespeare…'

'Sherlock'!

'But why _Romeo and Juliet_? Why that line'?

'Holmes'!

Sherlock froze, the sound of his last name bringing him back to reality.

'Yes'? He huffed, wringing his hands. 'Sherlock, you just said someone killed your father', John snarled.

'Yes… I do believe I said that'.

'Are you okay'?

'Yes. Fine. Never better'.

'Sherlock, your dad's dead'.

'Mm'.

'You don't really care'?

'Not in the slightest', he breathed, 'this is just another case. Just another case'.

John pinched the ridge of his nose.

'Sherlock, your _father_ just _died_'.

Sherlock smiled despondently, tugging the blue t-shirt from under the bag. 'We're all dying John', he grumbled.

'Yes but your father's died now'.

Sherlock suddenly closed his suitcase with a loud crack, his head hung low and his back faced John.

'My father was a sick, despicable man…' he murmured, 'you may not understand as you had parents and a sibling who love you. All I learnt from _my _father was that one has to be cold and detached to truly get along in life'-

'Sherlock…'

'While you were learning how to count my father was teaching Mycroft and I how to fist fight'-

'Sherlock I'm sorry'-

'No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm being so demented right now and I'm sorry I'm not stricken with grief crying in a little ball in the corner'.

The sarcasm laced words stung but John was able to understand. If he were a psychiatrist he'd say Sherlock was lashing out in order to bottle up distraught emotions deep inside him, but then, he'd seen plenty of psychiatrists and they knew jack-squat.

Now if you lived with Sherlock… there's another matter.

'Where are we going'? Demanded John, looking at the two messily packed bags on the table.

'Dartmoor', Sherlock muttered, 'my father lives there'.

'You grew up in Dartmoor as a child'?

'No. I didn't say that'.

'But your father lives there…'

_Couldn't stand the sight of me_, Sherlock thought bitterly.

John grabbed his jacket and set off to his room to change. 'Hmm', he hummed thoughtfully, 'maybe we'll see Henry…'

Sherlock smiled. That's where he and John differed; he hadn't seen any of his old clients a 2nd time. Well, he saw one once, but they didn't talk, namely because the man was lying dead in a ditch.

Now, back to the… _case. _

He looked around for his suit then swore softly.

He'd put it in the wash, along with his Chanel jacket and scarf.

'I could always wear the sheet again', he chuckled to himself, but it was an empty, jarring sound.

He turned back to the table where the t-shirt lay, daring him to pick it up it seemed.

Sherlock reached forward and delicately plucked the thing from the table like he might a pair of tweezers and a scalpel in the lab. He eyed it with a strange feeling of dread.

'Now', he questioned acrimoniously, 'what end do I get in'?


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: If you prick us… **

Mrs. Hudson, being Mrs. Hudson, had readied her car as per instructed.

Now she watched anxiously as Sherlock bundled their things into the boot and then jumped into the passenger seat.

'He's wearing…' she trailed away. John squeezed her shoulder lightly and nodded.

'I know'.

'And… _jeans_'?

'He was in a hurry'.

'Bloody hell, he's even wearing your sneakers'!

'What'?

John looked down at Sherlock in the car and – indeed – there were his sneakers, the red and white pattern unmistakable.

_Sherlock in jeans and sneakers_, he thought humouredly, _he's almost human. _

'Come on, let's go'! Sherlock yelled, banging his hand on the side of the car door.

John raised his eyebrows to Mrs. Hudson and shrugged. To his surprise she pulled him into a warm hug.

'Be careful Mr. Watson', she murmured.

John frowned and pulled away, Mrs. Hudson sounded very worried.

'Why? I'm always careful, and besides I have Sherlock with me, that man could fence blindfolded if the need ever arose…' he trailed away.

Mrs. Hudson ran a hand through her curling greyish hair.

'I… I just have a bad feeling about this… something's awry...'

'It's okay Mrs. Hudson'.

'I know. Just don't get shot, I don't know what I'd do without my boys'.

'I promise. And, like I said, I have Sherlock with me. What could go wrong'?

Mrs. Hudson looked towards Sherlock nervously; he was fiddling with the CD player and – in his getup – looked quite the teenager.

'That', Mrs. Hudson stated, 'is exactly why I'm worried'.

They were half way out of London when John finally sucked up the courage to ask.

'Your wearing my'-

'I know'.

'Are you going'-

'Yes'.

'Do you like'-

'No'.

'Oh… okay'.

They lapsed into silence again. John watched the bright lights of a large 8 wheeler truck go past, illuminating his hands on the wheel.

'Sherlock'? He muttered, regarding the man in the off kilter rear view mirror.

'Mm'? He answered absentmindedly, turning the page of his book and marking it.

'You were talking about Shakespeare before…'

'Yes. His _Romeo and Juliet'_.

'Why'?

'Moriarty read to me from it. _Take him and cut him out of little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine, that all the world will be in love with the night, and pay no heed to the garish sun. _The paragraph is Juliet grieving Romeo, but I think in Jim's sense my father is the dead Romeo and I am Juliet – the garish sun'.

'Son…' breathed John, the puzzle clicking together.

Sherlock nodded.

'He knows my… genial need for limelight, so to speak…'

John snorted, though instantly regretted it.

'He believes if he kills my father the rest of the world will be forced to ignore me in this time of need and instead turn to Mycroft, Regina and the rest of the family…'

_Regina? _Though John confusedly, _who's Regina. _

'But why Shakespeare? There are plenty more poems about death…'

'My father, he used to read to me from Shakespeare. Which leads me to believe this is not our charming Moriarty but someone far more imprudent. Someone who knows me quite well…' he trailed away.

John drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel and thought for a moment.

'What if it is Moriarty'?

Sherlock – in one of his rare moments – looked surprisingly irate.

'If it is James… _I _will cut him into little stars'.

'Welcome to MacDonald's, can I take your order'?

John looked to Sherlock with an impending sense of dread.

'Do you want anything'? He mumbled.

Sherlock gave his The Look that suggested _do I want to eat from MacDonald's…ever? _

'Right. Of course', the doctor growled, leaning out the window and reciting his order.

'Sure. Anything else with that'?

'… Do you do salad packs'?

'Uh…' clearly the girl had never been asked this before, 'I think so yeah…'

'One salad pack'.

'Fruit or veg'?

'Fruit'.

'Please drive forward'.

John nodded and put his foot down; the car idled forward into darkness.

The window slid open and a tall, gangly girl with shocks of ginger hair and acne lent out the window, a contrite look on her long face.

'I'm so terribly sorry, there's been a mix up with your order, there'll be a short wait'. She frowned confusedly at the two men's blank, emotionless faces. One of them, the short, blonde one, seemed to snap out of it and smiled a cautious, small smile.

'Sure. That's okay'.

The ginger haired girl – Poppy – nodded and dashed into the kitchen.

John turned the ignition off.

He turned to face Sherlock worriedly.

He hadn't spoken the entire 1 and a half hour drive.

'Are you okay'? John muttered, 'you haven't spoken in over an hour…'

'Is that a bad thing'?

'No… it's just weird…'

'Would you prefer me to talk'?

'No'! John exclaimed a little too quickly, 'I was just pointing out the obvious'.

'Oh… I do wish Tulip would hurry up…'

John felt a proverbial rock drop in his stomach. Sherlock had… made a mistake.

'Her name's Poppy, Sherlock. Poppy', he murmured.

A brief look of confusion flashed across Sherlock's face, and then it was gone.

'Oh', he muttered, 'I know… I know…'

Before John could open his mouth Poppy returned with their order in a brown paper bag.

John took it, payed and thanked her.

Then he handed Sherlock the fruit salad gingerly.

'Eat'.

'No'.

'I'm not driving any further until you eat'.

'Fine by me'.

'Child'.

'Mother-hen'.


End file.
